Anthropology, My Dear Holmes
by oncoming-neatly-folded-swan
Summary: Sherlock teams up with a woman working for Scotland Yard. She seems to have mastered the art of deduction, but perhaps she's hiding something? (Been wanting to post this for ages.. so I did. Enjoy!) (trigger warnings, touches on harsh subjects!)
1. Doctor Frederick Jones

Sherlock stepped out of his flat, he looked at his phone and read the message from John.

 _'Meeting with Lestrade?'_

He was fairly certain that both John and Lestrade had told him something vague about a meeting of some kind earlier in the week, however this morning had seemed a little rushed. It's not like he forgot about it or anything. But suddenly it was all about _the meeting._

A possible case? Along with this ominous meeting, today might not be as boring as he predicted it to be. He walked down the stairs and left 221b.

"Taxi!" he called. As he turned and stuck his arm out a woman collided with him sending a vast amount of papers and files fluttering to the floor.

"Oh gosh." She said flicking her fringe out of her face and adjusting her glasses, "I'm terribly sorry!"

"No... That's quite alright." Sherlock said, hiding his little suspicion, "Let me."

Sherlock bent down to pick up the papers then looked up and quickly examined her. She looked only a few year younger than him, with short bleached hair and thick rimmed glasses. She was wearing a smart black shirt with contrastingly casual jeans and designer sneakers. The fit of the shirt didn't leave much of her hourglass figure to the imagination. His mind wondered a little thinking about how she could have bumped into him, he hadn't heard quickened footsteps coming from behind him so she must have either been paying too much attention to her papers or she meant to bump into him.

"Oh, thank you so much, Sherlock!" she called out to him.

"I'm sorry?" he said snapping out of his thoughts to realise that she was gone and he was left holding all of her papers. He watched as she got into the taxi he had just called, "Hey!"

She winked at him from the taxi as it drove away.

Sherlock sighed and petulantly ran his hands through his hair. He grabbed another taxi and climbed inside. During the ride he decided to look over the papers she had, for some reason, left with him; they were all on various psychology and anthropology experiments and they all featured a Doctor Frederick Jones, the main subjects appeared to be behaviour and body language, specifically in criminals. It was a case study of sorts on this specific Doctor. The whole collection painted a rather clear picture of this Doctor's talents and merit.

Sherlock thought to himself, 'A woman carrying papers on a doctor of psychology, she could be his assistant? No... her clothes, an assistant would be dressed more smart than casual. Partner? ...sneakers... Intern. Carrying his papers for him. But why did she leave them with me? Psychologist... probably an experiment. Meeting with Lestrade? She's probably going to be there. It's a test, see if I'll bring the files and work all of this out...'

"Did he say he was coming?" asked Lestrade, drumming his fingers on his desk.

"He should be..." said John, nervously looking to the doors.

Sherlock entered the room still clutching the papers. He was frustrated, but eager to prove his theory.

"There you are." Lestrade got up, "Where–"

"Someone took my cab..." Sherlock said, looking around for the woman but she wasn't there. Had he perhaps made a mistake? Not possible. He had the papers, she had to be here, but where was she? He almost looked forward to meeting this Doctor Jones, devising an experiment to test his skills before meeting in person, it was quite clever. For a psychologist.

"What are all those papers for?" asked John, stepping towards Sherlock.

"Not important..." he turned to Lestrade "Why are we here? It's a case isn't it, I hope it's interesting..."

"Yes, there is a case. But I wanted you to come here first. There's someone I'd like you to meet, a sort of anthropologist... psycho analyst... or something..."

"Let me guess, Doctor Frederick Jones?"

Lestrade looked baffled, "How did you–"

"These papers, they all feature a Doctor Frederick Jones, his assistant or something dropped them by me as she took my taxi. She probably knew I was coming here so–"

"Indeed she did know you were going to be here." Said a woman, entering the room from behind him. "But you've missed one tiny little detail." It was the woman from earlier. She took the papers from Sherlock and handed them to Lestrade, "That's everything you'll need to know about me and my work. The rest is... irrelevant."

Sherlock noticed her cringe when she finished her sentence.

"Great, thanks." Said Lestrade, dropping the huge pile of files on his desk, "Let's see how you do on this one, and then go from there. Okay?"

She nodded and then turned to Sherlock.

"You took my Taxi..." said Sherlock, raising his eyebrow at her.

"I was running late." She replied, shrugging and shooting him a cheeky grin.

"Sorry, who are you?" asked John, the only one completely out of the loop.

"Really...?" Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Doctor Frederick Jones." She put out her hand and John shook it.

"Nice to meet you," John smiled, "Doctor–"

"John Watson, I know. I've read the blog." She smiled and looked over to Sherlock, "Very interesting read..."

John smiled awkwardly and thanked her.

"Right then, the case?" asked Lestrade, getting a little impatient.

"Yes... not that we actually need a... psychoanalyst?" said Sherlock, pretending not to know her profession to throw her off, "Most of the people Lestrade deals with are dead."

"Anthropology, Mr Holmes." She replied, ignoring his attempts to intimidate her, "You may know everything but I know people. I could be a huge help to you."

"No thanks." He flashed her an incredibly fake smile, "I don't need help. I have John."

"Sorry, wrong again." She smiled and raised her shoulders.

"John?" Sherlock turned to his friend almost pleading for him to not to leave him alone with her.

"She's right, sorry Sherlock but I have to get to work." said John.

Sherlock sighed, "That was a guess wasn't it."

"He did keep checking his watch... Anyways, looks like you're stuck with me." She said, raising her eyebrow at him and playfully nudging his side.

Sherlock sighed in irritation, he really didn't want to have to deal with her at a crime scene. If he had to see that grin one more time… he felt a twinge in his head.

She was giving him a headache.

"Cleaners found her this morning... The room was paid in advance for a week, which would account for the smell. Nobody's touched a thing, I've kept it quiet as long as possible and called you guys, it's just a matter of luck that Doctor Jones was starting today..." said Lestrade.

"Please... Call me Freddie, Doctor Jones is Harrison Ford. But that's another story." She and Lestrade shared a laugh and Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her, hoping that the pop culture references weren't frequent.

They walked into the hotel room crime scene. It was a reasonably posh room with fairly standard white furnishings.

"I wanted you to see this, Sherlock because frankly... I don't know what to make of it..." said Lestrade showing them the body.

Sherlock and Freddie looked over the dead woman on the floor, it was as if the scene was a perfect recreation of John and Sherlock's first case. The victim was wearing the exact same pink coat and she was lying down in the same position. The only difference was the lack of scratched messages, German or otherwise.

"Well, this is interesting..." said Sherlock more than a little excited.

"I can see why you called me..." said Freddie sharing his enthusiasm.

"Right then." Lestrade folded his arms and leant back on the wall, "What can you tell me?"

At that moment, Sally Donovan came bursting into the room.

"Freak's here then?" she asked, "Must be very special for you two, first case together?" she looked over at Sherlock expecting to see John with him, Freddie smiled and waved, "Oh... My apologies, you must be Doctor Jones."

"You're supposed to be watching the door..." said Lestrade, sighing in irritation.

"Yes, but how could she miss this?" asked Freddie, barely giving Donovan a second glance.

"Sorry?" replied Donovan, a bit taken aback.

"Oh right... It's a secret." Freddie winked at her and tapped her nose, "I got you."

Lestrade and Sherlock looked at Freddie then at each other, Lestrade shrugged.

"What?" asked Donovan, glaring at her.

"Please..." Freddie wandered around the body examining it while still speaking to Donovan. Sherlock watched her closely.

She examined the body with ease as she spoke as if conversing with Sally Donovan wasn't the least bit distracting or tedious for her, "The way you came up here, just to call him a freak? Seems like a pretty flimsy excuse to me, but please, look me in the eyes with your dilated pupils, it is rather obvious... but I'm sure _he_ already knows."

Donovan looked furious and tried to speak, but Freddie interrupted her.

"Yes... get angry at me, it only proves your innocence..."

"Oh my god... there's two of them!" Donovan hissed before storming out.

Freddie walked back over to Sherlock and Lestrade, they each raised an eyebrow at her.

"What? I was only teasing." Freddie shrugged. "How else was I supposed to get her to leave? She would have stuck around to make sure she used up all the insults she had thought of while waiting for you to get here and I just couldn't think with all that noise..."

"Noise?" asked Lestrade.

Freddie breathed heavily and noisily, crossing her eyes in the most ludicrous expression.

Sherlock stared at her, taking in this new information about her personality. She was clever, she payed attention to things he thought only he did. But she was able to talk to John and Lestrade easily and get Sally Donovan to leave in just fifty-four seconds, which was a new record. He felt something twinge in the back of his mind when he looked at her, he chose to delete it because it was neither important, nor relevant.

She leant against the wall on the other side of the room and placed her gaze on Sherlock, "Alright then." She said, "I've noticed a few things, but now it's your turn." She looked over to Sherlock, meeting his gaze.

Sherlock flicked out his magnifying glass and got to work. The details were almost exact, to an untrained eye of course. He smiled as he looked over the body.

"It would appear that someone's gone a great length to send you a message..." Freddie took out her phone and tapped quickly at it with both hands. Sherlock couldn't help noticing how small her hands looked compared to the large device.

"It's not an exact match." Said Sherlock, "The jewellery is different, all of it has just been bought. The wedding ring isn't hers, it's too small. There are marks on her finger where it was forced on. Likely it was bought with the other jewellery... The coat is too big for her and the killer soaked it themselves with a spray bottle."

"How did she die?" asked Lestrade.

"I'd say the bullet wound to her forehead, easily missed as her face has been smashed in."

They all looked down at the body. It was easily missed as she was lying face down on the floor, but that didn't make it any easier to look at.

"Oh god." Said Lestrade, stepping back.

"That's very telling..." said Freddie.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, removing the face, the victim's identity... Either meaning the killer couldn't come to terms with what they were doing or they wanted us, or more specifically you, Sherlock, to focus on what she represents rather than who she is."

"Which is?" asked Lestrade.

"Oh come on, really?" Freddie showed them John's blog post _'A Study in Pink'_ on her phone.

"You don't think he did this?" Lestrade looked shocked.

"Don't be ridiculous." Freddie and Sherlock spoke together.

Lestrade backed up a little.

"Sorry..." said Freddie "Somebody just used John's blog to create a scene personal to Sherlock, to send a message, this is a message to you. Something that represents that first case with John, something that I imagine is very personal to you, a new relationship if you will."

Lestrade tried to hold back a chuckle, but failed. Freddie rolled her eyes as Sherlock glared at him.

"Checking the body more carefully, for things the killer knows only you would notice, might help us work out what that message is..." she added.

"Right, I'll go and get the team." Said Lestrade, he left the room.

Sherlock walked out on to the balcony, he held tightly to the rails as he looked out over the city. It was busy, he took a deep breath and looked down. It seemed so high from up here even though he knew they were only a few floors up. The air was crisp and calm and he heard the door opening behind him.

"You don't have to look down you know."

Sherlock turned, it was Freddie. He examined her closely as she walked over to him, the way she walked was almost hypnotizing, it told him so much about her; outward confidence concealing _something_. It was so obvious, almost like she wanted him to see it. A trap she'd set for him.

"I remember all the theories about you... a friend of mine was part of the empty hearse? She wouldn't stop going on about you. But nobody has it right... not really, do they?"

He raised an eyebrow at her.

"You may have known what would happen but that doesn't mean you knew it would work..." she said looking out over the city, "You thought about it didn't you..." she turned to him "What might have happened if it didn't work? You just didn't want anyone to know that you were scared–"

"I had a plan and it worked. End of story. It was two years ago..." he returned to staring over the edge.

"Oh yeah? Then, why can't you let go of the bars?"

He looked down at his hands, indeed they were clasped rather tightly around the balcony bars. He looked over to her and fought the urge for his hands to shake as he let go of the bars. He smiled smugly and went back inside, not breaking eye contact with her.

"Is there a case and a phone we need to look for?" asked Lestrade, looking over at them as they re-entered the room.

"Unlikely, they only dressed the body up, this vic probably has her own story." Said Freddie.

"Right, we need to find out where the stuff was purchased, get a receipt or maybe catch whoever bought it on camera."

Freddie turned up the collar on the coat. "It's from H&M."

"Well we can't search every H&M in London..."

"It's likely she was killed here so the clothes were probably bought nearby." Said Sherlock.

"Unless they've been planning this for a while and they bought the stuff online." Replied Freddie, "Plus they probably don't even sell this coat anymore."

"That's a good point..." Lestrade rubbed his chin quizzically.

"What about cameras? They must have seen who entered the hotel at the time of death. Who booked the room in the first place? It would have to all be calculated, the killer wouldn't have just picked a room at random."

"No. We asked at the desk. The room was payed for in cash a week in advance and if nothing of note happens they only keep their footage for a week. This hotel is known for being... discreet."

"Helpful..." Freddie rolled her eyes, "Guess, they would have only just deleted it last night. Definitely planned."

"All we've got is the guy at the desk saying maybe he saw a big guy with a pony tail carrying a drunk girl into the hotel around the time. But that's not a rare occurrence."

Sherlock noticed Freddie tensing up at the mention of _a big guy with a pony tail_. He realised that she was easily affected by her emotions, a serious drawback. He added to the quickly forming file marked _Freddie_.

"Then we wait for the autopsy results." She said, "Find out what the message is."

"Have Molly do it." Sherlock snapped.

Lestrade rolled his eyes and sighed, "I can't just–"

"Pull some strings." Sherlock headed for the door, slamming it behind him. He was no longer needed in there and couldn't stand another minute with _her_.

"He does that a lot right...? Leaving like that?" asked Freddie as she gazed at the door he had just left from.

"You'll get used to it." Lestrade laughed.

"Will I?" she titled her head to the side as she looked up at Lestrade.

"Well, if you want to stay, we'll be happy to have you."

"Is that right?" she smiled.

"You're the only person I've seen who actually seems to annoy Sherlock Holmes as much as Sherlock Holmes annoys everyone else."


	2. The Trick

"John?" Mary opened the door to John's office, "It's Sherlock have you got a minute?"

"Sure, send him in." John said, rolling his eyes.

Sherlock walked in and petulantly slumped into the chair.

"So… What happened?" asked John, not even looking up from the days notes.

Sherlock jumped up and started pacing, he flung his arms up angrily, "It was _insufferable_ John."

"What–" he looked up, a little confused.

Sherlock interrupted him, "She _talked_ to me… like an equal… her and her psycho-nonsense." He waved his hand as he walked and turned to John, abruptly stopping and slamming his hands on John's desk, "She tried to analyse me, John!" He slumped in the chair again.

"The client?" John looked confused.

"No, she was dead. Shot and her face bashed in, dressed up like the woman from our first case." He said dismissively.

"So how did she speak to you?"

"What?" asked Sherlock.

John sighed, "Alright... Start again..."

"The woman, this _Doctor Freddie_..." he rolled his eyes, "She can read people. She's clever, not like all the other _normal_ people." His mind twinged at the mere thought of her.

"You're not _jealous_ are you Sherlock?" John chuckled a little.

"No." Sherlock said sternly, "There was a murder... _She_ seems to think it's a message for me."

"Why wouldn't it be?" John shrugged, "I mean she's smart, I Googled her."

"So you're taking her side now?" He turned sharply to John and narrowed his eyes.

"Sherlock–" John sighed.

Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair, gritted his teeth and took a deep breath.

John rolled his eyes, sensing a need for a subject change. "How's the flat mate hunt going?"

Sherlock folded his arms, "I don't need a flat mate."

"Oh yes you do." John laughed, "Mrs Hudson said–"

"Ah, Mrs Hudson said…" Sherlock started pacing, "I'll be having a word with her later."

"Mrs Hudson told me that you've been talking to yourself again."

"Not myself... my skull."

"Right... Because that is way more normal." John rolled his eyes, "Oh, I know. Why don't you ask Freddie to move in with you? She's new to town, right?"

Sherlock looked over John as if he had just suggested the most ridiculous thing someone could ever think of.

"John?" Mary poked her head around the door, "There are people waiting."

"Right then, Sherlock, off you go!" John said showing Sherlock the door.

"John–" Sherlock whined.

"Go home, talk to your skull..." he scoffed.

Sherlock grumbled and left quickly.

"Is he ok?" asked Mary, "I mean he didn't even comment on any of my pregnancy stuff..."

"There's a woman, at work." John replied.

"Is she bullying him?"

"I don't think so..."

"Oh... Do you think he–"

"Who knows..." John shrugged and shook his head.

Sherlock went back to 221b Baker Street. He went upstairs to find that his door was open. He crept in as the many possibilities rushed into his head. Freddie was sat in his chair holding his skull in one hand and twirling a set of keys in the other.

Sherlock sighed, he was hoping someone was trying to rob him. He felt like he needed an excuse to get into a fight. "How did you get in?" he asked as the twingey feeling in the back of his mind sparked up again.

"A magician never reveals her tricks." She said smiling.

"It was Mrs Hudson wasn't it?" he folded his arms.

She stopped playing with the keys, sat forward and rolled her eyes. "Spoil sport." She pouted.

"What are you doing here?"

"You need a flat mate, I need a flat. Simple as that."

"I don't need a flat mate."

She smirked, "Yes you do." She examined the skull, "You see these marks here? Prints, only from the various oils on human hands and dust, none on poor Yorick here. So you pick this skull up a lot and judging by the way you hold it and well... your personality, you talk to it... a lot. Ergo, _you_ need a flat mate."

"But you're–"

She interrupted him, "A psychopath? An addict? A freak? Oh wait..." she rubbed her chin in a quizzical fashion.

"I'm not a psychopath." He snapped "I'm a high–"

"–functioning sociopath... right..." she interrupted him again "You do know they're the same thing right?"

Sherlock stayed quiet and narrowed his eyes at her, "You're a psychologist..."

"Are you afraid I know too much? Who am I talking to?"

He almost laughed a little, but caught himself.

"So, the bathroom is over there and my room is upstairs?"

"You are _not_ moving in." He said stubbornly

She sighed and put the skull down.

"Ok... How about a game, you like games don't you? You show me your trick and I show you mine, if I impress you the room is mine, if not... I find somewhere else. Ok?"

Sherlock smiled knowing that he was going to easily out do her, and he wouldn't have to suffer being around her or that twinge unless they were working together. He reluctantly sat in John's chair then he leaned forward and rested his arms on his knees clasping his hands together, touching them to his lips as he examined her closely.

'Clever.' he thought to himself, 'Trustworthy, quick witted, forthright... psychologist, anthropologist, criminologist... fake glasses, nervous habit... dies hair.' he sat back and placed his hands on the arm rests, 'Different...'

"You're not from the city." He said, "Obvious from your accent, you're from the south."

"Easy..."

"You don't actually need glasses, you only wear them to make people think you're smart."

She removed her glasses, "And they quite frame my face, don't you think?"

Twinge.

Sherlock shooed it away in his mind and went back to observation. "You dye your hair frequently, it's naturally blonde... but you like it white because you feel it makes you stand out, but daddy still doesn't notice you does he? Always wanted a boy given your name, so you got a big job and a big title to impress him, but after all this still no one takes you seriously."

Freddie shuffled uncomfortably and scratched her wrist.

"You don't like people talking about your family, there are scratches on your wrists and around your fingernails where your nervous habit has gotten the better of you... you take sugar in your tea–"

"How do you know no one takes me seriously?"

"You have a doctorate and you dress like that?" he smirked.

"Ok... how do you know I had tea?"

"Mrs Hudson let you in, I'm sure she wanted to get to know you given the fact that you're a woman and that you're here to see _me_ and how Mrs Hudson seems so interested in who I am seeing... one can only assume she's at the door listening with a glass."

They looked over to the door and heard footsteps going down the stairs.

"And southerners do like their tea. Should I go on?"

"No, that's quite enough... It's my turn now." She sat back in Sherlock's chair, flipped her legs over the arm rest and stared at him.

He frowned, the way she was mistreating his chair clawed at him. But he had to stay composed.

"Should I go for looks or personality... so much to choose from... Your parents are quite old fashioned, still married, happily and you have a sibling... you have that drama complex that only comes with sibling rivalry, you see a lot of it in developmental psychology, kids stealing toys. I'd say a brother... Older brother, I bet he worries about you, you're his kid brother... but you love to watch him squirm don't you? You're a dog person."

Sherlock shuffled awkwardly, feeling a small crack in the walls of his carefully built mind palace.

"You don't really socialise well... but you had a dog... he meant a great deal to you, but he had to be put down... didn't he?"

He felt shaken, his balance knocked. 'No way she could notice any of that...' he thought.

"I can recognise a dog person by the way they act around other people... You've done well... I've seen people do worse over losing the only one they can open up too..."

Sherlock got up and paced, he didn't like this. Exactly the reason he didn't want a psychologist around.

"You like puzzles," she stood, trying to keep his attention, "They provide an escape for you along with certain other... vices... you need distractions as you're easily bored– understandable given your mind. You're different but your fear of failure gives you a need to distance yourself from everyone around you, you worry that if they see a weak point they'll think you're just like everyone else... you've built these huge walls of logic and reason around you as a shield from any sort of painful emotion... being completely vulnerable with another person or opening up about yourself is something you feel you could never really do."

He looked over to her.

"But I guess we don't need to do that now..."

They were both silent for a moment.

"So... on to looks I guess... You like the coat collar because it makes you feel taller, you hate your curls but your mother likes them, you play the violin, physical markers on your fingers and jaw line– right handed, I've noticed. You're itching for a smoke," she leaned close to him and he stayed perfectly still, she looked him in the eyes and whispered, "And you're afraid of heights." She walked over to the window, "How did I do?"

He stayed quiet and narrowed his eyes at her. She stared back eagerly awaiting a response.

"That was more than just psychology..." he said slowly.

"Observation is one of the most basic survival skills... Easy to learn difficult to master. I find it helps a lot in my line of work. I'll keep the keys then?"

Sherlock said nothing as she headed to the door. He stared into space trying to think of something he could say back, something more cutting that what he had noticed. But more observations were needed. He was falling into her trap.

"I have some stuff to do, I'll move my junk in later, I'm going out tonight, text me if I'm needed for the autopsy and uh... your secrets are safe with me..." she half-smiled at him and left. Then came back and poked her head around the door, "Has you're fireplace always smelled like piss?"

Sherlock turned to her, "Still?"

Freddie left 221b and sauntered down the street a little, thinking of her small victory. She felt a little bad for going so far with her _trick,_ 'I could have just tried spoon bending...' she thought, 'Maybe I'll get him something... a moving in present?'

A telephone box nearby started ringing. She looked around suspiciously and picked up the phone.

"You've reached burger king, how may I help you?" She said.

She heard the voice sigh, "Doctor Frederick Jones?" it was a man's voice, already exhausted by her.

She looked around nervously, "...God?"

"Not quite... "

'Slight amusement detected.' She thought.

"Can you see the security camera on the building to your left?"

She looked over to it, "Yes."

The camera turned to face the wall.

"Clever, did ya do that with your mind?"

Obviously ignoring her comments the voice carried on.

"And the camera outside the shop across the road?"

"Yeah..."

The camera turned to face the wall and a limo drove up beside her.

"If you could step into the limousine please."

"Why should I...?"

"Because I asked nicely."

"Well... I'm kinda busy, so uh... this kidnapping better be quick..."

They hung up. Freddie put down the phone and looked over the limousine. Someone very important needed to speak to her, she surmised. She eagerly got into the limousine, there was a woman sitting inside using a mobile phone. Dark hair and pale skin, wearing a smart business suit with a short skirt.

"Oh, hey... uh so now I don't feel so special... he picking anyone else up?" Freddie asked.

"I work for him." The woman said, not looking up from her phone.

"Right... so he pay well?"

"Yes." She smiled, very intentionally.

"Okay..." Freddie sat in awkward silence twiddling her thumbs as the woman tapped away at her phone.

The limousine pulled up at an old warehouse, the woman took her inside without saying a word, still on her phone. A tall man met her in the empty warehouse. He was wearing a suit as if he'd just come from something very important, his hair was thinning years of stress, job or family could be either. He stood very prim and proper, almost robotic. The most unsettling thing was his smug smile, as if he enjoyed what he was doing.

"Howdy." Freddie waved.

"Hello..." he replied, he was clutching a small notebook and an umbrella.

"So..."

"What is your interest in Sherlock Holmes?" the man asked.

"Straight to the point huh? Why should that concern you?"

"I'm a concerned party." He smiled politely.

She stared at him and raised an eyebrow.

"Are you moving in to 221b Baker Street? Are you working with him?"

"We have a case, and I needed a place to live. I'm not encroaching if that's what you think..."

The smile washed off of his face and was replaced with a look of pure disgust, "I can assure you that is not–"

"Oh!" she put her hand to her forehead, "You're the brother aren't you?"

"I'm sorry...?"

"Come on... Concerned party? And well, you both have that... look. And I mean come on, this is a little dramatic."

He looked through his notebook, "You're a psychologist..."

"Bingo." She smiled, "Now what exactly is it that you want?"

"My brother is quite an... interesting person. He frequently... upsets people. I like to know that he's taking care of himself."

"And you want me too...?"

"Gather information for me... for a price of course. I can only get so much out of him if we ever meet in person."

"Not interested."

"I can get you anything... if you're inclined."

"No. I'm not that person anymore... and besides, if I was you wouldn't want me around your brother would you?"

"How do you know that?"

"I know the signs... Look, I don't plan on interfering with... whatever _this_ is... I just want to help– with the cases... I applied for Scotland Yard, not Sherlock Holmes."

He raised his eyebrow at her with a slight smirk on his lips, "But...?"

"But... I feel like I understand him..." a small amount of pink fluttered into her very pale cheeks.

"Oh? And do you think he feels the same about you?"

"Does that matter?" she shrugged.

He smiled.

"Mycroft Holmes, I have a feeling we'll be seeing more of each other." He stepped forward and offered his hand to shake.

She frowned and smiled, shaking his hand. "I'll be going now then? I have a party to shop for..." she headed for the way out.

"Oh, don't mention this... _little meeting_ to him will you? He doesn't like it when I touch his things."

She stopped without looking back, "Am I his now...?"

Mycroft said nothing. Freddie smiled to herself as she left the warehouse.


	3. Welcome, Lover

It was a late and particularly cold end winter night. Sherlock poked the fire, it crackled happily and he heard Freddie walk into the room. He heard heels clicking rather than her usual squeaky trainers. He turned to her. She was wearing a long red dress with purple gloves and a long red wig that covered one eye. He felt the twinging feeling again except this time more... twingy. Like it was reacting to seeing her in this new light. More observations were needed.

The dress she was wearing was tight and clung to her figure as if it was made for her, showing off her chest and shoulders, except the length of the wig was covering her back. He couldn't stop himself before he made a note of her measurements, so he chose to look at other aspects of her. Her long gloves went up just higher than her elbow except one had slipped down a little revealing six small tally mark scars on her arm. She noticed him noticing and she quickly pulled the glove back up her arm.

Sherlock decided to take his mind off of the scars for now, as he knew it would somehow upset her and he found himself not wanting to upset her as the feeling made itself more prominent again…

"What are you wearing?" he asked.

"Aren't you supposed to ask me that over the phone?" she replied.

"Am I?" he got up and looked out of the window.

"It's a _costume_. I am going to a _costume_ party."

"Who are you supposed to be?" he turned back to examine her.

"Oh come on, you don't know?"

He shrugged.

She put on a low, sensual voice and batted her eyelashes at him, "I'm not bad... I'm just drawn that way."

Sherlock stared blankly as the twingy feeling pounded in his head.

"Jessica Rabbit?" she said.

He looked up and down her, "You don't look much like a rabbit"

"Well, I should get going..." she turned to leave, "Oh, I almost forgot." She rummaged through her bag, "I got you something." She smiled and handed him a small otter toy, "Just as a little moving in gift, cute isn't he?" she looked up at him. "Kinda looks like you." She quickly left the flat. Gone before he could even say anything about it.

"Oh don't you look lovely dear!" he heard Mrs Hudson say.

Mrs Hudson came in and looked over the flat, sighing at its dusty state. Sherlock watched Freddie from the windows, then stared at the small otter in his hand. It was small and brown, as otters were, with large cartoonish eyes and a slightly cheeky grin.

"She's very nice Sherlock, however did you find her?" Mrs Hudson said.

"She works with the police." He replied dismissively as he examined the otter for any clues as to why she would give it to him.

"You and her are a lot alike, meaning no disrespect to her of course– You'd do well to keep her around."

He put the otter in his pocket and went back to his thoughts on her scars 'Six tally marks, what could they mean?' he then remembered how she had reacted when he spoke about her family 'Trouble talking about family, interest in developmental psychology, tendency to act out– of course... why didn't I see it before? Daddy didn't want a girl... she's a foster child with multiple families. Previous habits would suggest drugs were one of the reasons she was sent back. Probably left some of her own accord...' he felt the twinge in the back of his mind again. He felt sorry for her and didn't like the fact that people treated her so badly 'Probably for her intellect, they didn't understand her...' and on some level he felt that he understood her, how it felt to be outcast– not necessarily by family, but by people in general. He found he had a desire for her to not be hurt again.

He checked the time, took out his phone and texted John.

"Molly, did you find anything?" asked Sherlock.

"She was drugged, not poison, but uh, Flunitrazepam." Molly replied, "They drugged her, shot her and–"

"Bashed her face in." Sherlock finished abruptly, "She has a tube ticket, she was going from Waterloo to Euston. It's either not a regular journey or not regular enough to warrant paying for a season ticket. She also had a return, unchecked so she didn't make it back. She also had a key... to a bike lock. If we can find the lock, the bike shouldn't be too far–"  
John entered the room.

"Bit late for an autopsy? Have you found anything?" he said.

"Hi John, sorry it's late, but this is as soon as I could do." said Molly, a little flustered, "How's Mary?"

"She's good thanks." He smiled, "How about–"

"John, what do you see?" said Sherlock, not taking his eyes off the body.

John sighed and joined Sherlock, "'A woman, with her face bashed in... Sherlock why am I here?"

"You're usually here aren't you?"

"Right..."

"Why did you start that blog?" he looked up at John.

"Because my therapist told me to."

"What does it mean to you...? Is it sentiment?"

"I suppose so, yes."

"But, what does it have to do with her?" asked Molly.

"She was dressed up like the pink woman from our first case." Said Sherlock.

"So, if I hadn't written it up... she might still be alive..." said John, looking down.

"Of course not, don't be ridiculous. She is a message, making her up like that only makes it personal to me."

"Or me..."

"No, chances are it's probably me."

"Did you come up with that then?" John raised his eyebrow.

"No... _Freddie_ did..." Sherlock examined the body closely.

"Who's that?" Molly whispered to John.

"A psychologist." said John.

"He's seeing a psychologist?" she said with a worried look on her face.

"No. I'm not. Doctor Jones works for Scotland Yard." Sherlock snapped.

"Oh, ok." said Molly.

"I found something else, in her hair," he picked the fibres out with tweezers and placed them in a petri dish, "Rough fibres, like thatch, but small, cut short. Traces of dirt... Brown and black fibres mixed with dirt... welcome mat? Likely..." he picked out a small piece of what looked like thin red plastic, "Nail varnish?" he placed the scraps in a separate dish.

"What?" asked John.

"There's nail varnish in her hair."

"She could have just ran her fingers through her hair before it properly dried?" suggested Molly.

"No, the shapes of the pieces show they were chipped, it was placed there."

"What about these tally marks on her arm?" asked John, pointing them out.

Sherlock froze, recognising them as the same ones Freddie had.  
"They could mean anything... Lovers, suicide attempts. Or..." he took out his phone and sent a message to Freddie _'Autopsy. St. Bartholomew. Come if convenient. SH'_

"So, she was dragged?" asked John.

"What?" Sherlock looked up from his phone.

"Through a welcome mat?"

"Unlikely, the way its scattered is too precise, this and the nail varnish, is the message."

"I'm going to get some coffee, would you like anything?" Molly looked expectantly at Sherlock who stayed silent, looking at his phone.

He sent another message to Freddie. _'If inconvenient, come anyway. SH'_

"Ok then..." Molly shrugged, looking down at the floor.

"I'll have a tea, thanks." Said John, "Milk, no sugar."

Molly left and John walked over to Sherlock.

His phone beeped and he read the message from Freddie

 _'Couldn't keep me away'_ with a winking face. Sherlock smiled.

"So how is Freddie?" asked John.

Sherlock thought for a moment, "She's... interesting. Her mind works differently."

"To yours? Hardly different." John scoffed.

"To everyone else's. But she's... different."

"Oh right... I get it." John smiled.

"What?" he looked up "No you don't... there's nothing to get."

"Of course." He said, like he knew something.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John and then went over to examine the fibres under a microscope.

"Here's your tea John." Molly said as she came back in, holdin two paper cups.

"Cheers Molly." He took the tea from her and wrapped his hands around the cup as it was quite cold in the lab.

Sherlock reached into his pocket and took out the otter that Freddie had bought him.

"She bought me an otter..." he said.

"Who?" asked Molly.

"What?" asked John.

"A real one?" asked Molly.

"No... a toy" He showed it to them.

"Awh!" Molly said sweetly, "It's so cute."

"She said that too... then she said that it looked like me."

John laughed, "It does kind of look like you."

"Do you think I'm cute?" asked Sherlock.

John laughed again. Sherlock stared, waiting for him to answer.

"Oh..." John shook his head, "Uh– no... Sherlock I– I don't think... you're..." he trailed off.

Sherlock put the otter back in his pocket and quietly examined the fibres under a microscope.

"So if she thinks the otter is cute," he said examining the otter, "And that the otter looks like me, surely that would logically mean that she thinks I'm cute? Why would she think that?"

John looked up, he had been asleep at the desk next to a few paper cups as Sherlock had spent a while examining the fibres in silence and then the otter also in silence.

"Who knows..." said John.

"Well..." Molly was about to speak, but thought otherwise.

Freddie came in to the autopsy room, startling everyone awake.

"How can I help?" she asked.

Molly and John stared at her.

"I didn't know we were getting help from cartoon characters... did uh, did somebody get framed?" asked John, laughing sleepily.

She laughed, "Hello John, it's only me... Freddie. Sherlock asked me to come. I was at a costume party, I don't just dress like this randomly."

"Of course, I hope Rodger doesn't mind?"

"Oh, no Rodger, only me."

"Sorry, but who exactly are you?" asked Molly.

"Oh sorry." She put her hand out to shake, "Doctor Frederick Jones, you can call me Freddie. You must be Molly."

"How do you know that?"

"Sherlock told me, I mean not directly, but he said he wanted Molly to do the autopsy and well, here you are." She smiled.

"She's just showing off, it's written on your jacket." Said Sherlock.

"He thinks highly of you, even if he doesn't say." She whispered to Molly.

"Oh, really?" Molly smiled, blushed and shook Freddie's hand.

"Don't do that, come here." Said Sherlock.

Molly stepped over to him, looking a little dazed.

"No, not you. You." He pointed to Freddie, "Can I see your arm please?"

Freddie walked over to him, past a slightly perturbed Molly, and rolled her glove down showing six similar tally mark scars.

"What do they mean?" he asked.

"Like you don't know..." she raised her eyebrow at him, "They're families, different foster parents..."

"So the victim is an orphan?" asked John.

"Not just an orphan, but one who was past around from home to home, probably having trouble with the different families for one reason or another... and the parents couldn't handle her... usual stories are drinking, drugs, fighting..."

"Which was it for you?" asked Sherlock.

John and Molly swapped bewildered looks.

Freddie grinned, "Don't you already know? Adoption agency would have records on her... But without a face there's not a lot we could do. They've done a lot to destroy any evidence to who she was... no dentals or anything?"

"No..." said Molly.

"Have you worked out the message yet?" Freddie asked Sherlock

"Welcome something... the only other thing I've found is nail varnish–" replied Sherlock.

"What colour is it?"

"Dark red."

"Why would that matter?" asked Molly.

"Everything always matters, when it comes to messages like this. Can I see it?" asked Freddie.

Sherlock handed her the dish with the nail varnish. She examined it closely.

"Welcome, lover." she said looking up at Sherlock.

"What?!" Molly almost shouted.

"The colour," she turned to Molly, "The colour of the nail varnish is called lover. If the message is welcome, something... it's _'welcome, lover'_ I guess it would appear that our killer has a crush... or an obsession. They want you to know they're out there and they're willing to do anything to get to you... you could be in a lot of danger..."

"As per usual then?" said John.

"No, not usual. I mean you guys may have been in some pretty serious situations, but this is different. Stalkers can be very... difficult."

"How do you mean?" asked Molly.

"Well, they often have their own definitions of events, anything could have set them off... I mean it's safe to say they can't get a date... but they could have read about you online and created a fantasy of what you're really like, then that could have grown into an obsession. They might have tried to meet you for real. It's likely to be a fan... one you may have met once, a small moment that would have meant nothing to you. But everything to them..."

"What do you suggest I do then?" asked Sherlock.

"Well, you just needs to lay low for a bit, don't take on any high profile cases, and try to stay away from the press."

"Think you can handle that Sherlock?" John laughed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Not exactly possible right now." His mind snapped to Moriarty, all the cases he'd been taking on. This one was just another in a long line. Freddie didn't need to know.

"No, I'm serious. If they see something that disagrees with their perception of you they could lose it... Oh and _definitely_ try not to be seen with anyone they could see as a... threat I guess. Someone they might think could hurt you, a girlfriend... or boyfriend."

John choked on his tea a little.

"What?" asked Sherlock.

"N...nothing" he chuckled.

"So what happened to her?" Freddie asked.

"She was drugged, shot and her face smashed in... in that order." replied Sherlock.

"Drugged with what?"

"Rohypnol." said Molly.

"I assume she wasn't..." she paused for a moment, Sherlock looked up at her a she looked a little frightened. The feeling flared up again, he didn't like seeing her like that.

"She wasn't what?" asked John.

"Well, I mean it would give DNA to identify the killer... we would be able to check for... donations."

"Wait, what?" asked John.

She looked over at Sherlock, like she didn't want to actually say what she was trying to say. Realising what she meant,

Sherlock spoke.

"She's asking if the victim was raped." the words almost seemed to cut through Freddie.

"Yeah." she said, shaking the thought from her head.

"Oh." said Molly, "No, I didn't find any evidence of that."

"Right then, I should get back to my party. I won't stick around too long and I'll see you back at the flat." She left quickly.

John and Molly stared at him. He stared back.

"So, who doesn't need a flat mate?" asked John.

Sherlock grumbled quietly.

"How... long... have you been... together...?" Molly asked almost crushed, her words barely squeaked out of her mouth, "You've never mentioned her before..."

He looked confused "What...?"

"They only just met today, since they'll probably be working together I suggested he ask her to move in, since he desperately needed a flat mate." John said.

"Not desperately..."

"You were talking to the skull, what was I supposed to do?"

"Oh... right..." said Molly.

Sherlock looked over the key.

"If she had the key on her, the bike is locked up somewhere..."

"Can I see it?" asked John. He looked over it, "It's to one of those large metal ones, like big pad locks... I guess that narrows it down a little–"

"If we find one of those tying a bike to... anything across the whole of London... or just around Euston underground station..." said Sherlock, "You said she was drugged?" he turned to Molly.

"Uh yes with–"

"Then she had to have been somewhere for the killer to spike her drink, easiest way... she could have gotten off the tube and cycled to a place to get a drink after work... if she was taken from there, the bike must still be there..." he got out his phone and texted Lestrade.


	4. Who Framed Sherlock Holmes?

Sherlock twirled his phone around his fingers. Lestrade had sent him a list of places near the station to check. He sat back in his chair and thought about the events of today.

Meeting Doctor Jones had been... interesting. At first she seemed rather tedious, showing him up with her _trick_ as she called it. It wasn't a trick, it was a serious of complex observations and deductions that determined specifics about people that nobody else would ever notice. Nobody except him. And now her. He felt that thought strike a nerve. _Him_ and _Her_.

He pushed that thought to the back of his mind, the place where he knew it would get replaced by something more relevant or equally unimportant as it came along. But there was something else. A feeling he had not felt before, not since _the woman_. Doctor Jones was indeed an equal to him perhaps even better in some respect, she had friends, people liked her. Then there was him.

His phone buzzed in his hands, breaking his concentration. He checked his phone, Freddie was calling him. He answered.

"Yes?" he said.

She giggled awkwardly.

"Would you like me to let you in?" his eyes flicked over to the set of keys with a surf board key ring left on the coffee table.

"Yes please..."

Sherlock smiled and hung up the phone. He quickly bounded down the stairs, he had a small thought in the back of his head telling him not to leave her outside, alone, in her state for too long.

"Drink too much?" he asked as he opened the door for her.

"Stating the obvious much?" she said slightly falling, he caught her and she looked up at him, a slight mischievous grin across her lips, "And I could drink you under the table."

He brought her inside.

Freddie slumped into Sherlock's chair. Sherlock shuffled uncomfortably as he sat down in John's old chair. He narrowed his eyes and returned the intense stare she was giving him.

"Tell me something Sherlock Holmes... How do you cope?"

"There are ways..." he said calmly, not breaking eye contact.

"Besides that." She looked down at the floor.

"Have you ever played Cludo?" he asked quickly, not wanting the look on her face to stay any longer than it already had. She laughed and kicked off her heels.

"I'm gonna go to bed." She got up, took off her wig, dropped it on the table and ruffled her hair, "You ever have to wear one of those for an extended amount of time...?"

"Please, I am a master of disguise..."

"Had I known that I'd have got you a pair of rabbit ears and you could have been my date."

"Rabbit ears?" he asked.

"Rodger Rabbit?"

Sherlock stared blankly.

"Jessica Rabbit's husband?"

"Why would he need rabbit ears?"

"Because he's a rabbit."

"But Jessica Rabbit isn't?"

"Yes."

"So why did she marry a rabbit?"

"Because he makes her laugh!"

"He can talk?"

She laughed, "He's a cartoon!"

Sherlock looked confused.

"Oh come on, you're telling me that you've never seen Who Framed Rodger Rabbit?"

He shrugged.

"When we've solved this case, remind me to force you to watch it." She smiled and headed to the stairs.

Sherlock imagined how tedious it would be, they didn't have a TV so it would probably be on her laptop in her bedroom... on her bed... together. He pictured lying next to her, looking up at her looking back at him, gazing into her eyes, leaning in closer–

"Shit!"

He shook his head as he heard Freddie yell. He looked over and ran to her, she had slipped and lost her balance on the stairs causing her to fall. Sherlock ran over and caught her, just in time.

"It's alright, I've got you" he said a little awkwardly, trying to be comforting.

"My ankle..." she said, dazed.

She leant on him and he walked her over to the sofa. He looked over her and noticed the leg split in her dress revealing a very large and very old burn mark on her upper thigh, from an iron. He sat her down and felt... bad...

"You'll have a few bruises tomorrow." He said.

"I don't bruise easily..." she replied.

"I can see that..." he looked over at her leg. Freddie covered it.

"I'm clumsy... Accidents happen..." she said trying to avoid the subject.

"From the angle and the shape, it's obviously a–"

"You look at my legs often Sherlock Holmes?" she leant back into the arm of the sofa and rested her foot on the opposite side, over Sherlock, showing off the whole of her leg.

She watched as his eyes carefully followed the length of her leg from her hip to her ankle, taking in every inch of detail.

Marks on her inner thigh from small blade or some such sharp instrument, a small scar on her knee, probably from a fall as a child and a freckle, just above her ankle. A few words swirled in his head, creating even more mystery about her, but one word specifically sprung to mind when he looked at the freckle. It didn't look like an otter, nor did it remind him of himself. But it was in some way that he couldn't quite put his finger on, _cute_.

He didn't know why he did this, it's not like this information was relevant, or that he would ever need it again. But the feeling demanded that he do it, telling him that he would not see them again. And he found himself wanting to. He tried unsuccessfully to suppress this desire, but he filed away the detailed report on what her left leg looked like next to an empty folder marked _right leg_.

"How is your ankle...?" he asked.

"It'll be fine..." she replied.

Freddie got up and wobbled a little.

"At least take my bed... save the stairs." Said Sherlock.

"Thanks."

She walked away and reached for the zip on her dress.

"Ouch..." she flinched.

Sherlock looked up at her, he noticed scars on her back, just over the top of her dress.

"Could you...?" she asked, sounding defeated.

"Of course." He said.

He got up and gently placed his hand on her shoulder, he lingered for a moment then slowly pulled the zip down. She slipped the dress off and it landed softly on the floor. He could see the whole of her back, it was pale and very badly scarred.

Sherlock looked over the many deep, old scars on her back each in sets as if from a rake or garden fork. Almost hypnotised, he ran his finger along one of the larger scars, finding himself wanting to examine every inch of them very closely.

She took a deep breath in and he realised what he was doing.

"Oh. I'm... sorry." He took off his dressing gown and helped her into it.

"Thanks..." she turned to face him.

"You're very clumsy..." he said.

Freddie sighed and smiled weakly.

"I'm not, I never have been."

She took his hand and placed it on her leg and moved it up to the iron shaped burn mark.

"My mother at the time was doing the ironing when I came downstairs... 13 years old. I was going to meet up with some friends, mother asked if I was meeting boys, I told her no and she called me a liar. I was wearing shorts and she accused me of trying to seduce her most recent _gentleman caller_. Again, I told her no and again she called me a liar. She hit me and called me a whore. She held the iron to my leg... She told me never to wear anything short like that again... I was moved out pretty quickly after that."

Sherlock said nothing. They kept eye contact with each other as she dropped the robe, it hung loosely off of her shoulders. She took both of his hands and placed them on her waist, she then stepped forward and moved his hands around to her back.

He felt the deep scars on her back and quickly looked down at her body, hoping she hadn't notice his eyes move.

Unfortunately she had and offered him a weak but underlying smug smile. Her short, lithe figure was exceptionally pale it almost glowed in the light of the fire, he stayed silent.

"I got these when I was 17. The most recent _family_ said they didn't know what might happen if they ever caught me _using_ again. I didn't care... I should have... they pulled me out into the garden, half naked and gave me one for each time they _turned the other cheek_ , as they would say... gave me the benefit of the doubt... they were my least favourite... out of the families I had." She let go of him and slowly he moved his hands off of her. She put his robe back on and loosely tied it at her waist. She folded her arms and looked down at the floor.

"Why are you telling me this?" he asked, unable to think of a reason.

"Haven't a clue." she shrugged.

"Liar..."

She smiled, "Maybe I'm just drunk... Maybe I wanted someone other than police and social workers to know that stuff about me... someone I trust."

He almost laughed.

"You think it's funny that I trust you?" she stepped a little closer to him, "Well, it must be because I'm drunk... why else would I..." she leaned in close and kissed him on the lips resting her hand on his chest. Sherlock didn't move or kiss back, he just stayed perfectly still.

She looked up at him, he stared back.

"Or maybe because you like when people tell you the truth, when people are straight with you... I figured I'd tell you before you found out... and thought... less of me." She looked down at the floor, "You're not a psychopath..." she almost reluctantly gazed into his eyes, "Far from it in fact. You can keep up the game with the others but you can't fool me. You have attachments to people, you care about them... you have a clear conscience even if you don't want to admit it. There are things in this world that matter to you... and that's very un-psychopathic." She felt his hand take hers and his finger rest gently on her wrist. He was checking her pulse and trying to be sly about it. She smiled at him and kissed him again, resting her hand on his chest. Before she pulled away he kissed her back, unable to stop himself. He didn't know where it would have gone if she hadn't pulled away, but it felt nice, not like any other he had shared before like Janine or... It felt nice.

She looked up at him and gazed into his eyes, watching his mind desperately trying to explain something. She smiled and admired him, he noticed this.

"Goodnight, Sherlock Holmes..." she said before leaving.

He watched her as she walked away. Then when she closed his door, he sat down and stared into space. He thought about what had just happened. It was strange, physical attributes had never been relevant before, but irritatingly he found himself somewhat intrigued by the shape of her body, her curves and... other parts. He thought about how she had looked when gazing into her eyes, increased heart rate, dilated pupils.

'She fancies me.' He thought to himself, smiling quite smugly.

He drifted off to his mind palace and the feeling was there, waiting for him. It had infected him like a computer virus, he had to get rid of it as it was clouding his thoughts. He thought about what she had said to him about being completely vulnerable and he realised that she had done just that, she had told him about her troubling past and had been completely naked in front of him, literally, save the red lacy underwear she had on. His lip twitched almost into a smile at that thought, the way it perfectly complimented her hip bones. He shook his head. That was not relevant information. Especially the specific shade of red making her pale figure look even more– He stopped. Even more what? What had he been about to think? He certainly admired her image, not as if she were a classic painting but as if she were a hidden masterpiece. The kind you wouldn't normally notice, tucked away in a corner of an unknown gallery... Even if the concept of looking at someone in that way was new to him, he couldn't deny that. It felt as though he had lost the right to a few too many IQ points just for thinking that. Then he came to a room in his palace. She was there, waiting for him. She smiled.

'Go away... I'm trying to think.' He said grumpily.

Then he realised, all he was thinking about was her. He sighed and remembered what it had been like when she placed his hands on her skin, almost electric. He looked at the image of her in his mind, he couldn't keep away. It sent a shiver through him as he gently caressed her curves. Remembering what it had been like when she took his hands, that had been an entirely new experience, he found himself wanting more. It felt wrong, what had she done to him? He was desiring contact. He ran his hand along her hip bone with one finger curled into the lace of her underwear. He stopped realising he was fantasising. Highly counterproductive. This could never give an accurate result, as he had no idea how she would react. But he wanted to know. In the one short day he had known her she had been completely honest and open with him, it felt strange but he felt closer to her than to anyone, even John. He was his best friend but he had never just told him everything there was to know about John Watson, he must have assumed that he already knew. He put the thought of John out of his mind, having decided to indulge in his fantasy for a moment longer, the last thing he wanted was to be interrupted by John.

He wanted to pursue the feeling, see where it would take him and find out what it actually was, an experiment in social convention as Freddie would probably say. He allowed her to lead him over to his chair, he sat down and she sat in his lap, facing away from him. He examined her scars, it made him want to do this for real. She turned and straddled him. She took hold of his wrist as if to take his pulse, it was very quick. He looked around and caught his reflection, dilated pupils. He took a moment to process this new information, barely able to understand. This kind of thing didn't happen to him. But he came to a somewhat acceptable conclusion.

'I fancy her...'

"Sherlock!" John shouted as he came into the flat and ran up the stairs, "Sherlock?"

Sherlock was still sat in place staring into space.

"Have you seen this?" John showed him a newspaper.

"Do I look like I've seen anything?" Sherlock asked.

Freddie came in from Sherlock's room.

"Have you been sat there all night?" she asked him.

"It would appear so..." he replied.

John looked over to Freddie, she was still wearing Sherlock's dressing gown.

"Oh, hello John... I should probably put some clothes on." She smiled awkwardly and headed to the stairs.

"Careful..." said Sherlock still fixated on blank space.

"Nothing to trip on." she said looking over to the dress on the floor.

John watched Sherlock as his eyes followed her up the stairs.

He looked at the dress on the floor.

"Sherlock?" he asked.

"What?" replied Sherlock, looking over the paper John had brought in.

"Something you want to share?" John smiled.

He looked confused, "No...? And why are you showing me this?"

"Really? Nothing? She's wearing your clothes, sleeping in your room, her dress on the floor and you're sat here, well, being quiet."

"What part of that needs explaining?"

"Well..." John shrugged, "I'll tell Mary we have a couple to have dinner with–"

"Why would that make us a couple...?"

"Am I missing something?"

"Probably..."

John sighed, "So you and Freddie–"

"What would give you that idea?"

"Didn't you and her–"

"She slipped on the stairs, I helped her and let her have my room."

"While you sat here staring in to space... Jesus Sherlock I didn't think you were that blind." He laughed.

"What?"

"When she slipped what did you do, help her?"

"Yes."

"And did she seem at all grateful or...?"

"She was injured..."

Freddie came downstairs, they looked over to her.

"Hope I'm not interrupting anything?" She said, her eyes flicking between the two men.

"No." Said Sherlock, "How's your ankle?"

"Purple is how I would describe it," she lifted her trouser leg showing a purple bruise on her ankle. "It'll be fine, just don't ask me to run anywhere." She grabbed a drink of water from the kitchen. "So, what did you want to show us?"

"Sorry?" asked John.

"It's early and you brought a newspaper, something important?" she grinned.

"Yeah... well you said low profile right?" he showed her the paper. She looked it over, shocked. The article in question was a big gossip story it showed a picture of her and Sherlock from last night when he had let her in, with a big heart around them and the headline _Who Framed Sherlock Holmes?!_

"Oh lord..." Freddie slumped down.

Sherlock chuckled, "It's a joke right? Because you're dressed like her, in the film...?"

"This is bad..."

"I thought it was quite clever." Said John, laughing along with Sherlock.

"No, I mean... If they see this... the killer. They'll believe it, every word of it. They'll see me as a threat and... I'll be next."

"Oh come on," Said Sherlock, "No one believes what they write in these."

At that point they heard Mrs Hudson squeal with delight and rush up the stairs.

"Oh Sherlock, I've just read the paper!" she said happily.

"Don't tell me you believe that rubbish?" Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Well there's no sense hiding it now, everyone's going to know!"

"There's nothing to hide."

"Exactly dear," she smiled, "I knew something was up, I can always tell these things! Would anybody like a cuppa?"

Sherlock sighed and went into his bedroom.

"They couldn't know that it's you though... the killer... right?" asked John.

"But some people do, they might find out." She was visibly shaken, "I'm gonna go talk to him..." she got up and headed for Sherlock's room, knocked on the door and slipped inside.

"They are sweet aren't they?" Smiled Mrs Hudson.

"Even if they don't realise it yet." John added.

"Hey uh... are you ok?" asked Freddie.

Sherlock sat down on his bed and placed his shirt next to him.

"What did last night mean...?" he asked, still confused even after last night's deductions.

"Does it have to mean anything?" She sat down next to him and he stayed silent, "Ok... you can choose if you like?" She crossed her legs, "I was drunk and made a mistake." She turned to him, "I was grateful to you for helping me and listening to what I had to say... or..." she took his hand, "I like you. Simple as that..."

Sherlock stayed quiet for a moment then turned to her and let go of her hand.

"People don't like me..." he said slowly.

"Then I guess it's not that one." She got up and headed for the door, "Tell me when you plan on searching the pubs, I'll come with." She opened the door.

"People don't. You are... different." He said.

Freddie smiled and left the room.


	5. Laying Low

Lestrade dropped the paper onto the coffee table, "If what you said about the profile is accurate, I think the best course of action is for you two to stay here until we have more information."

"No..." replied Sherlock.

"What do you mean no?"

"How are you going to solve anything without me?"

"Sherlock..." said Freddie rolling her eyes.

"Look, we'll check in with you later, or if we need help." said John.

"When." Said Sherlock.

"Right then..." Lestrade headed to the door.

"What are we supposed to do?"

Lestrade looked at him and Freddie in turn.

"I'm sure you with your _combined intellects_ can think of something to fill the time." He sighed.

"We'll get moving then." said John.

Sherlock sat quietly as they left.

"What's the plan then?" asked Freddie.

Without saying a word Sherlock placed a pile of board games on the table in front of him. He grinned at her.

"Right, well if this is actually what we're going to be doing for what could possibly be the rest of our lives... we need to do it right." She went over to the kitchen.

Sherlock thought for a moment 'rest of our lives? oh right, because they'll never solve it without us...' he chuckled to himself.

Freddie slammed a bottle of schnapps and two glasses on the table.

"So Professor Plums, you ready to lose?" She asked.

"I believe you will be the loser Ms _Scar_ lett"

Freddie looked at him in disbelief.

"Oh, uh... I–"

She laughed, "You are so on!" She poured two shots while

Sherlock finished setting up the board.

"Cheers." She took the shot.

Sherlock examined his drink, 'What could they accomplish from drinking?' He thought, 'It would only reduce inhibitions and intelligence' he then thought about last night's discoveries and his choice to explore this new feeling 'Perhaps that would help...'

"You'll get used to it, you'll be losing a lot." she laughed.

He narrowed his eyes and took the shot.

"Do you think they'll be alright?" asked John.

"Yeah, especially on home turf."

"I hope Mary's alright..."

"I'm sure she's fine."

"Yes... I suppose you're right."

John and Lestrade walked up to the next pub on the list.

"Hey look..." John pointed to a bike left out front and took out the bike key.

"Does it fit?" Lestrade watched as he tried the key in the lock and it sprung open.

"She was here alright..."

They went inside. It was early; there were a few people sat at the bar and a few groups having an early lunch sitting around tables in the corner.

They headed up to the bar.

"What can I get you?" asked the barman.

"Nothing for us thanks" Lestrade showed his badge, "I was wondering if I could see your security footage? We're looking for someone."

"Who might that be?" He asked suspiciously.

"A young woman, dark hair... Would have been in here around a week ago."

"Ok, come on back, there's a few tapes so it might take you a while." He turned to a skinny young employee, "Watch the bar for a moment Jay."

"Sure boss." They replied.

"So, you really dressed up as her?" asked Sherlock pointing at the screen.

"Yeah..." replied Freddie.

"Why...?"

"I don't know... I mean, she's like... sexy. Right?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"I guess I wanted people to think of me like that." She slumped back into the sofa.

"By dressing as her?"

"Well, yeah... I guess... I dunno."

"Why can't people think of you like that... normally?"

"That's what I keep saying!"

"Her body proportions are ridiculous... She must be very uncomfortable. And besides... your proportions are much more aesthetically pleasing."

She sat up and stared at Sherlock, "That is honestly the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me... ever."

"Well..." he said modestly.

"No really, thank you." She smiled genuinely but drunkenly at him.

"What should we do now?" he asked.

"Did the movie finish?"

They looked over at the screen and watched as the credits rolled.

"We could always–" said Sherlock, in a rather suggestive manner.

"No. No more Cluedo."

"But–"

"No! It had to have been a mistake, but I really don't think the victim did it... and I'm pretty sure that one card was a fake."

Sherlock thought of other things they could do, there was the post-it game he had played with John on his stag night, although he didn't really know or care about any celebrities... they had rather exhausted the board games and Mrs Hudson might get upset if they did anything that could be considered violent or destructive. However there was one thing they hadn't tried yet... He thought back to his fantasy... But he couldn't ask about that... could he? No... that had to be built up to. John always used to talk about what moves he would try on his seemingly endless stream of dates and Sherlock new exactly which ones ended with John coming home the morning after.

"There. Right there." Said John, "He drops something in her drink."

"That's likely to be our killer then."

They watched as the man led the woman out of the pub. John took a photo of the two people on the screen with his phone.

"And that's our victim."

They left the room and went up to the barman.

"Everything alright? Did you find what you were looking for?"

"Yes thank you..." said John.

"Do you recognise either of these people?" asked Lestrade.

John showed him the photo.

"Not him, but that's Jenny." He pointed to the victim.

"Jenny?" asked Lestrade.

"Yeah, I think it's Smith... She comes in every Friday night after work."

"Where does she work?"

"At one of the shops in Waterloo station, she lives down the road a little... You know she's a sweet kid... Is... is something wrong? Is she ok?"

"Do you know her?"

"Well, no... not really. She's a regular, I'd like to know, as I said, she's a sweet kid."

John and Lestrade looked at each other.

"Sorry but I can't say anything right now"

"Oh right..." The barman sighed.

Lestrade went around to the other patrons asking if they recognised either of the people.

"So uh..." Said the barman, "You don't look like a coppa?"

"No, I'm a doctor. John Watson." He put his hand out to shake.

"Ah, I read your blog, you work with that detective bloke don't ya?" He shook his hand, "Where's he then?"

"Uh... he's taking a break right now... He's got himself a stalker."

"And what's that got to do with Jenny?"

"She–"

"John!" Lestrade called him over.

"Sorry, got to go..." John caught up with Lestrade as they left the pub.

"We should show this to Sherlock, see if he recognises either of them."

"Oh dear!" Mrs Hudson yelled, heading into 221b.

"What?" asked Sherlock, "Can't you see we're busy?"

Sherlock was balancing an apple on his head and Freddie was pointing a gun at him. They had post-it notes stuck to their faces with various names written on them and there were new bullet holes in the wall next to another yellow spray paint face with a frown.

"What on earth have you been doing up here?"

"She didn't want to play Cluedo, what else were we supposed to do?"

John and Lestrade came up the stairs. Freddie jumped and threw the gun to Sherlock, he caught it and the apple fell off his head.

"Jesus Sherlock what are you doing?!" Lestrade stared at the two of them.

"Target practice?" he shrugged, having not yet built up the courage to make a move.

"There's been so much noise coming from up here, but when I heard the gun shots I didn't know what to think!" Mrs Hudson left quickly.

"Is that my gun?" asked John.

"Of course not..." Sherlock refused to meet John's gaze.

Lestrade noticed the empty bottles on the table, "You've been drinking!"

"No..." Freddie giggled and Lestrade gave her a severe look, "Yes..." she went quiet.

"Right. If you can take two minutes from endangering yourselves to look at this photo?" he pointed to John who had gotten his phone out.

Sherlock looked at the photo and shrugged.

"I'll have a look?" asked Freddie, "I can't say I would recognise–" her eyes widened, "Oh..."

"What, do you know who they are?"

"I... I... That's–" she sat down, "That's Alistair... He's, oh god..."

"It's alright, take your time..." said Lestrade.

Sherlock watched her reaction, the feeling practically exploding inside him, whoever this person was to her it wasn't good. Freddie looked scared.

"I went to... group with him... We sponsored each other... Like, if we needed support outside of the therapy we'd go to each other..."

"Do you have an address for him?" asked Lestrade.

"Well, not in London... Jees... I've not seen him for years." replied Freddie.

"We need more to go on."

"Alistair Matthews... I think he had an aunt that lived near Oxford Street? But oh! He'll have a record, he's done community service."

"Ok, I can look into that."

"Are you gonna be alright here on your own? I've got to get back to Mary."

"We'll be fine..." said Sherlock, looking at Freddie.

"Right then, I'll call you as soon as I find anything"

John took his gun back and left with Lestrade. Sherlock sat in his chair and watched Freddie who just curled up on the sofa and stared into space.

"This is just so weird... I mean, I've not seen him in years and he just turns up?" She sighed.

"When was the last time you saw him?" asked Sherlock.

"I don't know..." she thought for a moment, "Actually... I think we came to London... not for any reason. But we went to Hyde park... we broke into this empty building, like a grounds keeper shed or something and we talked... about everything..."

Sherlock examined Freddie for a moment, he could tell there was something she wasn't telling him. He felt a little hurt.

He thought about why that might be. She said that he valued honesty, which was true, but why was she hiding this from him? Then he realised there was no real reason for her to tell him, so he kept his deductions to himself.

"Go on then..." she said weakly, breaking his concentration.

"Go on what?" he asked, knowing full well what she meant.

"Tell me who he is, who you've no doubt worked him out to be." she continued staring.

"You lied to Lestrade..."

"I didn't lie... I just didn't tell him the truth."

"You knew, it being a personal tie, it would bring you further into this that you already are."

She scrunched up her face and sighed as she turned to face the back of the sofa.

Seeing her like this made his head hurt, he wanted to leave and not have to look at her like this, but something made him stay. Something made him sit on the coffee table and gently stroke her hair. It was the feeling again. He remembered his deductions from last night, how he thought he felt about her.

It was that, no doubt about it.

Freddie rolled over and looked up at Sherlock, he was staring into space with his hand gently tangled in her hair.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Uh..." he pulled his hand away, "When people are in a state of shock or high stress it often helps if another person is there to provide support in a gentle manner, such as a hug or offering a hand to hold or stroking... I was comforting you."

"Oh..." she looked a little surprised.

He went to leave, seeing he had clearly misread the situation and done the wrong thing.

"Wait." She said grabbing his hand.

He turned back to her.

"I didn't say I didn't like it..." she looked up at him hopefully and gently pulled him down to join her on the sofa.

He sat down quietly and put his arm around her, she curled up at his side and rested her head on his chest. Not really knowing what to do with his hand, he gently placed in on her hip at the edge of her jeans, his thumb resting on the patch of bare skin between her jumper and jeans.

She twitched and breathed in sharply as she felt his hand touch her skin, he moved it away again in fear that he had done something wrong, instead he placed his hand on her arm and gently stroked as he spoke.

"He hurt you didn't he..." he said.

She breathed shakily as she nodded, not saying a word.

"Your reaction to seeing his face again was one of fear. Your usual out-going and confidant personality has been overcome by a need to hide. The way you're reacting to him is not just the shock of knowing he killed someone, the look on your face shows you know full well what he's capable of. You're scared. But that's the question... A woman who grew up with multiple abusive families, had a lot of trouble with fighting and drug abuse... No doubt knows what it's like to be on a dealer's bad side. A woman who has left all of that behind her and can look back without blinking... What could scare you?"

He felt her squish her face into him as she let out a small whine and tears filled her eyes. Then suddenly it all became clear, what she was so afraid of. He thought back to the autopsy, when she had asked about what had happened to the victim, she had been afraid to say it.

Sherlock clenched his fist, he was angry. Angry at what this Alistair Matthews had done to her, he wanted to protect her and keep her safe from him, but also make him pay for what he had done to her. Then he had a troubling thought. This would probably affect her desire for a relationship, not that he even knew if that's what he wanted from her... but it would affect her willingness to be intimate with another person.

Then his mind raced, even if that wasn't the case why would she want that from him? He shook that thought from his mind 'Think of this logically, she's currently curled up next to me, showing no sign of ever wanting to let go that would point to at least some form of affection' he smiled, then realised he was being a little selfish.

"Did you ever tell anyone...?" he asked her.

She shook her head, "I was afraid he'd get to me if I did" she replied, her voice high and raspy.

"Would you like to...?"

She sat up and looked him in the eyes, she took a deep breath, "I suppose someone should know..." she took his hand and crossed her legs, "It was quite a few years back, after my last family... when I decided to live on my own, I'd been going to meetings for a while and working in a bar to pay for my course. And that's when I met him." She squeezed his hand a little tighter, "It was in a little group session thing, like we'd talk about our stories and then he decided to speak, he hadn't said anything for weeks he'd just be there, observing the rest of us speaking. So he told us how he ended up here, about a relationship that went bad... the usual suspects. Then I felt that I could speak because he had... his courage made me feel like I could finally speak up. So I did, I told them my story and thinking about it now, the way he hung on my every word, examining me... I wish I had noticed..." she hung her head, "So, the supervisor suggested we pair up, seeing that we gave each other the confidence to speak up. So we did." She got up and started pacing, Sherlock watched her. She was hunched over and looking almost ashamed. He could tell where this story was going, "We talked about our lives and families and habits, we smoked and drank and then... then we had sex... we started a relationship. It felt nice to be close to someone... but I just couldn't see. He was manipulative and emotionally abusive... But that's just what I thought relationships were... I was so messed up."

Sherlock clenched his fist, he didn't like this. She had willingly let this guy in and he had taken advantage of it. In a way he was glad they were on lockdown, it meant he could keep her safe from him. It also meant that he was unable to beat the shit out of this Alistair person... Because he would, if given the chance, readily kick his teeth in. He leant forward and clasped his hands together pressing them to his lips.

"Then one day, he just snapped... Like, he'd been bad, but never physically abusive. He'd just... I dunno, control me. Make me think I was crazy and that he had to always be around to stop me from embarrassing myself. Made me feel like I couldn't do anything without him. I said that I was thinking about moving to London to work on my doctorate, but he didn't want that, he wanted me to stay close, and when I tried to leave he got violent... he grabbed my wrist. I tried to fight back and he hit me with a vase, ripped my clothes and threw me onto the sofa... and... I fought and screamed... but it was no use." She stopped pacing and sat down on the coffee table in front of him.

Sherlock noticed her fingers were bleeding where she had been scratching them while talking.

"Then he stopped. Just looked down at me and said he could do it, if he wanted... and that I couldn't tell anyone because he didn't _do_ anything. I remember thinking gosh, he's right. That's what they'll say. I'm lucky he didn't _do_ anything _._ Then he left, told me he was going out to get fags like nothing had happened... And I just laid there thinking I'm never going to get away from this... There's only one way out."

He took her hand quickly, not wanting her to continue, "You didn't... did you?"

"No... I thought about it... I had no one... nothing to live for. But then I thought maybe I could? If I left I could find something to live for. I was still alive, he hadn't killed me yet. But I was afraid he would. So I packed as much as I could fit into a backpack and left... I used a fake name at the meetings, so he never knew my real name. And I went to London... Again, working in a bar to pay for school... I swear I'm never gonna pay all the loans off," she laughed weakly, "But I got away... I actually managed it... I mean, I still wake up some nights in a cold sweat thinking he's going to find me... But I guess he never did... he moved his obsession onto something else... for some reason you... and I just had to end up here. Aren't I lucky...?"

He thought about that remark 'Aren't I lucky...?' what did she mean by that? Lucky she ended up with the object of her ex-boyfriend's obsession or lucky that she ended up with him...

"No... I didn't mean that." She said, trying to get his attention as he stared into space, "I am lucky, lucky to have met you, because if anyone can work out where he is and what he's planning, it's you... and we can stop him... together."

Sherlock continued staring into space.

"Sherlock...? Please say something..."

He thought for a moment, what should he say? Something about protecting her or stopping him or how he felt– No... not that, that wasn't appropriate after what she had just told him. He should be in comfort mode, make her feel safe and tell her to stop shredding her fingers.

He took her hands, stopping her from hurting herself. She looked up at him.

"I'm happy you're here." He said slowly. He felt funny, that wasn't what he had meant to say... it just sort of slipped out. But she appeared to appreciate it, she was actually smiling. It was a weak smile, but a smile none the less.

"Thank you, Sherlock." She placed her hand on his cheek and leaned in closer, she kissed him on the lips. He felt it rush through him and he responded to her lips a little enthusiastically, he ran his fingers through her hair and stroked her shoulder. He was happy that this was happening, but didn't want to take it too far out of fear of hurting her.

Then he felt her slowly move her hand up his leg, not knowing how to respond, he did the same. Then she ran her tongue over his top lip, he shivered a little trying to hold himself back. She bit down on his lip and he let out a small unintentional moan. How was she doing this to him? The feeling took control over him, stopping him from holding back and he took hold of her hips, pulled her up into his lap and kissed her passionately.

It felt incredible having her sat in his lap like this, he could feel things, stirring inside him that he hadn't felt in a long time, but this time he felt like he desperately needed to act on those feelings, as if he wouldn't get the chance to ever again. And at that moment he realised he didn't want another chance, not with anyone else but her.

But then she stopped, she quietly laughed and touched her forehead to his. He didn't want to stop, but didn't want to over step any boundaries he may have missed, this was all quite new to him. This had never exactly gotten this far before.

"Sorry... I got a little carried away." She whispered, surely being able to feel the _problem_ that had presented itself between them, "You must think I'm such a mess. Telling you a story like that then…" she stopped.

He ran his hands up her thighs, over her hips and rested them at her waist as she straddled him on the sofa.

"No need to apologise..." he said slowly, trying not to blush, unsure of whether or not she wanted him to continue, "Process things how you wish… I am, and will be… right here. Even if it's just for a... _distraction._ "

"Hold on a second..." she got up and felt him trying not to let her go. She realised he must have compared that to Alistair grabbing hold of her, but it wasn't like that. It was sweeter, more that he had gotten used to feeling her body close to his, and he just wasn't ready to lose that feeling just yet, "Just, wait right here... Don't move ok?" she looked over the way he was sat on the sofa and bit her lip, he raised an eyebrow at her, "Just don't move an inch, stay right there." She leaned over and kissed him again, it lasted for a little longer than she meant it to, but it just felt so nice that she almost couldn't control herself. She quickly went upstairs to her room.

Freddie surveyed her appearance in the mirror and thought about what to do next, she wanted to take this further because she felt safe with him, she wanted him to know how much she appreciated him being there for her. But rushing into something after such a vulnerable moment probably wasn't the best course of action.

She tried to think of all the acceptable social constructs for this particular type of conversation and came up blank. She had learned many acceptable ways to initiate such a thing, but had never put them into practise. This was new territory.

Conversation was usually so easy, a bank of pre-defined responses to please the target and easily disarm them, but for one thing, Sherlock wasn't an easy target and he would easily see through a fake conversation. People usually liked it when she was archetypally quirky, but it was of course a cover. A useful cover for pretending to have a life and an understanding of people. But when it came to a real, meaningful relationship. She hoped Sherlock was just as clueless as she was.

She smartened herself up and wiped the smudged makeup from her eyes. She smiled then headed back to the stairs.

"Carlie..." she heard from behind her.

'No... that couldn't have been real. It sounded like...' She went over to the window and looked out, no one was there and the fire escape wasn't even down, so nobody could have come up.

"Just in my head..." she said to herself.

"Is that so?" she heard someone say behind her.

It was Alistair, he was here, in her room, right now. This was real.

He grabbed her from behind and covered her mouth, she struggled and tried to fight. Then she felt a sharp pain in her arm and a familiar warm rush flooding her system. Things became blurry as she fought passing out. He was pulling her over to the fire escape. She managed to pull his hand away and shouted as loud as she could.

"SHER–"

He covered her mouth again and pulled her down to the alley below.


	6. A Very Bad Come Down

Sherlock watched as she quickly ran up the stairs. He wanted to follow her, but he didn't want her to think he was trying to in anyway control her or force her into anything. He tried to collect his thoughts and plan out exactly what it was that he wanted to do next. His mind was something of a mess, it was like she was a tornado that had just passed by, disorientating everything in her path of destruction.

There was a part of him that still hated her for that, the control she had over him with just a simple smile or swish of her hips. How had she managed to do that in virtually no time at all... only truly intriguing people managed to catch his attention and even fewer kept hold it.

He was still intrigued by her, fascinated even. There was still so much he didn't know about her... But he wanted to know. Maybe that's what he wanted, not to rush into any kind of physical relationship at this particular moment, but ease her out of her vulnerable moment with a nice chat... That's what normal people did right? They talked... sometimes over drinks or food.

He tried to think of some of the lines John would use, on girls in the past and on Mary in the last year or so, but then he stopped, words like that should come from him. He knew she would definitely appreciate it more if it weren't reused sentiment... but then of course he would have to come up with something himself. He wasn't good at words, music yes because that was more precise, things fit together like a puzzle and that made sense to him. But words... Perhaps he just wouldn't tell her where the words came from. She'd probably still appreciate it.

He wondered what could be taking her so long, what she might be doing up there and where she was planning on taking it to. Would he have to disagree with her when she came downstairs? Tell her that it probably wasn't the best idea to take such a big step? He crossed his legs on the sofa, wondering if he'd even be able to do that.

Her lips tasted like peach. He could still taste it and it made him want to get back to kissing her. These feelings were new, attraction, desire to be close... It was oddly nice. Was this what John felt when he thought about Mary? Or Lestrade when he awkwardly danced around that Interpol agent.

Cloudy thoughts numbing the almost unbearable turning of wheels and cogs in his brain. She posed a difficult problem. She would become a weakness... like so many others, another attachment someone could use against him. But did that make him weak? He felt weak, in his head, his knees... If anything did happen was he in a state to stop it? Could he figure it out as quickly as he could if he wasn't encumbered by warm fuzzy feelings?

He cringed.

"SHER–" he heard her scream from upstairs. He shot up from the sofa and ran up to Freddie's room.

She wasn't there. His eyes darted about the room for clues to what could have happened.

'Open window, scuffed rug, boot prints. Someone came in from the fire escape and grabbed her... but there would be signs of a fight, she would have fought back but didn't. Why?' He looked over to the mirror, there was a splash of blood and a needle on the floor. An all too recognisable needle. 'Dammit!' He ran to the window and heard a car screeching off in the distance. 'But where would he go... of course!' He thought of what she had told him, an empty grounds keeping shed in Hyde Park. Thinking of his earlier worries, he realised he was working at almost triple capacity, it was like the thought of her in danger made every part of him focus directly on her and what he could do to help her.

He grabbed his phone from his pocket and ran downstairs throwing his coat on and charging out of the door.

"Sherlock? What's wrong? I heard shouting!" Mrs Hudson asked.

"No time!" He shouted back to her as he hailed a cab. Mrs Hudson watched from the door as he told the cabbie to step on it to Hyde Park. He sent a text to John as quickly as he could

 _'Hyde Park now. He got to her. SH'_

Freddie woke up, she felt warm and relaxed. She was lying in Sherlock's bed wearing his dressing gown, she tried to move but his arms were wrapped around her. She rolled over to face him and he smiled. She ran her hand down his chest, his pale skin felt cool and soft.

"Not exactly how I had planned on spending the night..." he said sleepily, stroking her cheek

"But there aren't many things I would have preferred."

She smiled at him.

"Now, I need you to do me a favour."

"Well, you caught me in a good mood." She took his hand.

He gazed into her eyes giving her a very severe look, "I need you to wake up."

"What...? I am awake."

"Please... Just wake up... for me?" he asked again, his eyes pleading with hers.

She opened her eyes, her head hurt and she felt dizzy. That had been a dream, realising what was happening she wished it didn't have to end. There was nothing she could do... She was trapped. Everything was blurry and her mouth tasted like death. She knew this feeling.

Alistair had drugged her, he knew exactly how much to give her to get her to pass out, because she had told him. Things became a little clearer as she realised where she was.

"Hello Carlie." Alastair said, "Sleep alright?" he tilted his head and stared unblinkingly at her.

Freddie looked around, the room she was in coming into focus. They were in the grounds keeping shed. She was tied to a rusty metal chair with ropes and could see the red marks forming around her wrists. Her arm was bleeding a little from the needle wound and she felt dazed. Alistair was sat across from her, drumming his fingers on his legs.

"I said, did you sleep alright..." he cracked his knuckles.

"Yes Alastair." She said, out of habit.

"Good." He got up from his chair and walked around her, "You managed to get away from me... That really upset me Carlie." He placed his hands down on her arms, pressing them into the arms of the chair, "But I knew I could find you, a detective... That's what I needed. But he became so much more than that... his mind is beautiful, whereas yours is... well you know what's wrong with you."

She clenched her teeth as he pressed harder on her arms, leaning all of his weight on her.

"I forgot all about you, I've been following his work for a while now, biding my time to show him how much he means to me."

"By killing that girl..." Freddie said, having to force herself to speak.

"I'm sorry, I thought I heard a little mouse squeaking..." he swung his hand and hit her hard across the face.

Freddie scrunched up her face and tried not to give any indication of her pain.

"So, as I was saying. Sherlock Holmes is so much more than you could ever hope to be, how he could even associate with someone like you, you're not good enough for him, no one ever will be."

"And you think you would be?" a voice asked from the shadows.

"What?" Alastair turned looking for the source of the voice, "Who's there!"

"Don't you recognise my voice?"

Freddie smiled, recognising the voice to be Sherlock. Alastair saw her smile and hit her again, her nose and lips now bleeding profusely, purple bruises appearing over her cheeks.

"If you've brought someone here to try and save you..." he looked around frantically, "I'll kill her! I will!" He shouted.

"As you said, no one will ever be good enough for me, so why are you trying?" he stepped out of the shadows, his coat billowing behind him and a light shining through from the one broken window.

"I... I just wanted you to notice me." He said, panicking.

"Well, here I am. You've got my attention. Impress me."

Alastair stumbled back, he looked around frantically and his eyes landed on Freddie, beaten black and blue, drifting in and out of consciousness.

Sherlock turned and looked at Freddie, the feeling practically punching him in the face, his chest felt tight like his heart was being crushed. Seeing her like this made him angry. He gritted his teeth. He could have killed Alastair right then and there, but he had to keep his cool. If anything happened to him now, he couldn't save her. No, he couldn't kill Alastair right now, as much as he wanted to. Alastair hadn't suffered enough.

Sherlock wanted to break him.

"This?" he pointed at Freddie as though she were an offering to him, "You think this is impressive? Where's the puzzle, where's the intricacy? There's nothing to solve here. It doesn't interest me." He saw Freddie's face fall a little, he hated that he had to talk about her like this in front of her. But it was necessary.

"B..b..but I– That girl, I did that for you!" he begged to Sherlock on his knees.

Sherlock scoffed.

"That shocking excuse for a murder? Please. A child could have solved that. The pieces of the puzzle just lined up for me to find? It wasn't even clever. It was boring. Just like you and all the other normal people. My god, what it must be like in your funny little brain."

"But–"

"So yes. I believe you were right when you said no one will ever be good enough for me, certainly not you. You bore me."

Alastair looked up at Sherlock, his eyes glazed over. He stood and stared at Sherlock for a moment. Knowing exactly what he was about to do, Sherlock prepared for a fight. Having successfully broken Alastair, he was now free to beat the ever-loving-shit out of him. He just had to wait for that first swing, to claim self-defence for when Lestrade showed up to enquire just how many pieces Alastair was now in.

Alastair took a swing and Sherlock ducked, kicking him in the knee and tackling him to the ground. In his head he had worked out and carefully calculated each blow, the timing, the aim, what would come of it. But once he threw the first punch to Alastair's bastard face he completely lost control. He kept on hitting his smug-git face, every time he thought about stopping, another thought of _'how his worthless eyes could still look upon the perfectly adequate, reliable and sometimes even pleasing, human being that was Freddie'_ took over, bringing another round of blows to the face.

Freddie watched all of this like it was a dream, the come down was bad. Just as bad as she remembered. Mixed with the pain in her stomach from not having eaten, the pain in her face from all the beatings and the pain in her wrists from the ropes, she could barely keep it together. Blood splattered from Sherlock's continued beatings, his face not it's usual expressionless mask, but now a contorted image of rage and revenge.

"Sherlock?" she heard a voice calling. Lestrade kicked the door in and John ran in behind him.

"Sherlock!" John called, "Oh Jesus Christ." He exclaimed as he saw the mess Sherlock was making of Alastair's face. John grabbed him by the shoulders and desperately tried to pull him off.

"Let go of me, John!" he shouted, but John was too strong. He dragged him back and away from Alastair.

Sally Donovan ran to help Freddie.

"I've got her, she's badly beaten and..." she held up her head and looked in her eyes, "She's high as well."

A certain tone to her voice made Freddie narrow her eyes at Donovan. It made her want to describe the disappointing date that she so obviously had last night, but at this point her words were slurred and she was drifting out of consciousness again. The last thing she saw was Lestrade standing over Alastair's body.


	7. Bedside Manners

Freddie tried to open her eyes, her lids were heavy and unwilling to cooperate. The room was fairly dark, only lit by the warm glow of a bedside lamp and the streetlights below her window. She was in a hospital room… that much was clear.

It was very quiet, which unfortunately made any nearby sounds unbearably loud. The beeping of equipment, the squeak of shoes as they hurried past her door, cars driving past the hospital.

Someone was snoring by her bedside, slumped in a chair that was much too small for them as their long legs hung over the arm. They were using their scarf as a small pillow but they were shivering slightly as it seemed their coat was draped over her like an extra blanket.

It was Sherlock, of course, and he'd been there for a while judging by the shadow on his sharp jaw line. Still in the same clothes, still splattered with blood. The image of his face contorted with rage flashed into her mind. It was such a contrast to look at him now. So peaceful, gently snoozing beside her. Freddie realised she'd never seen him asleep, not even tired since she'd met him. Still only a few days ago... but he was here. The man who rarely made connections to people. She felt special. Part of the inner circle.

Another memory came to mind, her dream before waking into her nightmare. This couldn't be another dream could it? She felt floaty, but that could be attributed to pain killers. She didn't want to wait to find out.

"Is this real?" She choked out, her voice raspy and dry.

Sherlock suddenly snapped awake, his eyes darted about the room as he instinctively went to grab for his coat collar before realising where he'd left it.

"I was just... resting my eyes." He said, saving face. He sat up and crossed his legs in the chair.

Freddie looked up at him and tried to smile. Her face felt swollen.

"You look cold." She added.

"So did you." He looked down at his coat.

"Thanks."

"They never give you enough blankets."

Freddie felt his hand in hers, she stopped trying to smile as she remembered the pain in her cheeks.

"You need more painkillers, they're not taking care of you." Sherlock stated, leaping up from the chair.

"No-" Freddie snapped, squeezing his hand closer, "Stay... please?"

Sherlock looked at the door, then back to Freddie.

"I'm fine..." she said, not quite believing it herself.

"No you're not." Sherlock shouted, pulling his hand away. He stormed across the room pushing his chair out of the way.

Freddie felt herself involuntarily flinch at his raised voice. Sherlock noticed this and tried to calm down. He sighed.

"You're not..." He said, so quietly it was almost a whisper. He took a bottle of water from the side table and poured it into a plastic cup he must have got from a water cooler. He handed it to her and helped her sit up to take a few sips. "Look at you. Lying in this hospital bed, you can barely move! I bet you can't even see me your face is so swollen. He nearly beat you to death."

"But you stopped him."

Sherlock sighed.

"Did you... kill him?" Freddie asked, slowly putting down the empty cup.

Sherlock noted the fear in her voice. There was nothing in her face to indicate if it was because of Alastair... or him. He stood at her side and took her hand again.

"No... John stopped me. But I could have."

"Oh." Freddie said.

"What answer were you hoping for?"

"I... I don't know. Where is he?"

"Other side of the hospital." He noticed Freddie tense up, "But he can't hurt you anymore. He's in Lestrade's custody and they're going to take him in when he's recovered."

"No... They have to stop him-!" Freddie tried to get out of the bed, her voice panicked, "He'll talk his way out of it, he will he's-"

Sherlock shushed her. He stroked her cheek and sat at her side, gently squeezing her hand.

"He won't be able to talk his way out of a confession. Lestrade has my phone and it's all the evidence they'll need."

"Oh... good."

"He'll rot in prison and I know people that can make it a worse time for him. They owe me favours."

"Good..."

"This shouldn't have happened... You don't deserve this."

"No one deserves anything..." Freddie coughed, "Things just happen."

"But they shouldn't... Not when I can stop them."

"But you did. If you stop something it's already happening... You wanted to _prevent_ something."

"Analysing my words...?" Sherlock almost smiled.

"I'm clever." Freddie tried to shrug.

"I suppose you're... what's the opposite of wrong?" He asked, dryly, pretending not to enjoy her banter again.

"Stop it." She smirked.

Sherlock paused. Listening to her speak, laugh almost, just hearing her voice again was what he'd longed for since running out of 221B to try and save her. It felt good. Knowing they'd made it through. He'd just gotten used to the idea of having her around all the time and he wasn't going to lose her. It was nice having someone around the flat, especially someone on his level. In the short time she'd been around he'd learn pretty much all of her deep dark secrets, but it occurred to him he barely knew any of the little things. The kinds of things he'd never even given a glance to... but John would constantly obsess about. For instance, if John were to get Mary a gift, he'd make sure it was in her favourite colour, or pattern. Little things he knew she liked. Sherlock wanted to know Freddie on that level. Stuff like that didn't matter to him, but maybe it mattered to her?

"Tell me something about yourself." He almost snapped.

"Like what?" Freddie asked, trying to frown.

"Anything, favourite colour, what kind of music you like, what do you get when you order Chinese food? We haven't done that yet."

"Yet?" Freddie smirked.

"Words." Sherlock rolled his eyes in response.

"I like the curry."

"With rice or chips?"

"Either."

"Good, it'll give us more time to talk... Unless you feel like you need a rest?"

"Talk about what?" Freddie managed a small laugh.

"Ah. I don't have my phone on me."

"What are you talking about, you can't order takeaway to a hospital?"

"Well... unfortunately we'll never find out. Unless I go to the front desk. Do you reckon they'd let me?" He smirked.

"Oh don't make me laugh, it makes my face hurt!" She grinned, "What do you want to talk about anyway?"

"I wanted to finish our talk... from earlier, well I guess it was yesterday now." He shrugged, a small pang of guilt scratched at his brain. He tried to delete it.

"What talk...? We weren't really talking."

Sherlock couldn't tell if she was blushing through the bruises.

"No... But we did, before... that." He was unsure how to word this, sentiment was not his speciality. He hated feeling vulnerable. "Besides isn't that what people do? They talk... about things. Things they like... music, I don't know, puppies?" He tried to sound flippant.

Freddie laughed, "Are you people now...?"

"Was that a raised eyebrow?"

"It was supposed to be."

Sherlock sighed, "You could have died."

"But I didn't."

He looked away from her, out of the window at the cloudy city, "I wanted to finish that conversation... and I couldn't do that, if you died."

"That's true."

"So!" Sherlock stood and walked around the room, trying to shake off the moment. "Let's get started then. Did you know John's wife was pregnant or have you not met her yet?"

"No I haven't. I'll have to congratulate them. I met your brother though."

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he turned back to face her from across the room, "How much did he offer you?"

"Didn't ask, I didn't take it."

"Ah, you people and your integrity. We might have split it."

"Could get a lot of takeaways with it though, I imagine."

"We'd have a lot more time to talk."

Freddie laughed sleepily, "You really want to know that much about me...?"

Sherlock watched as she struggled to keep her eyes open. He walked over and pulled is coat over her once again, helping her get comfortable. He thought for a moment about how he should respond to that.

"Your past is your business... but everything else would be my pleasure."

"That's nice." Freddie smiled, "Did John say that?"

Sherlock smirked, "At one point I believe. Something like that."

"Still nice though. I hope I remember this."

"You should get some rest." Sherlock said, bringing his uncomfortable chair back over to her side.

"Yeah. I'm sleepy." She replied, her eyes were closed and she was already drooling on the pillow.

He looked over her and couldn't help a small smile. He lent forward and kissed her forehead before sitting down again and taking hold of her hand, "It'll be harder tomorrow... But I'll be right here when you wake up."

"Tell me a story..." She mumbled, "Let's talk, like you wanted."

"Alright. Where would you like me to start?"


End file.
